One Weak Spot
by FS
Summary: Shuichi realizes that the Big Boss has only one weak spot... on hiatus until I have finished "Ghost at Twilight" and "Encounter in Venice"
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **

Detective Conan belongs to Gosho Aoyama.  
This fanfic belongs to me.

x.x.x

FS.

x.x.x.

**One Weak Spot**

_(dedicated to SN1987A)_

x.

_...a short story about the Boss and his beloved Sherry... written with tongue in cheek as usual..._

**1. Prologue**

He was a mystery, a legend, the Moriarty of the twenty-first century. They said that he sent his instructions by e-mail and that a telephone number was the only link between the highest members of the Black Organization and him. They had heard from somebody (some said it was Pisco, some said it was Calvados) that his powers of observation and his deduction skills rivalled those of Sherlock Holmes, that he could react faster than Gin and disguise himself better than Vermouth, and was more dangerous than both of them together. They said he had a heart of stone.

Of course there had been a few reckless members who had tried to investigate on their own, to find out who their Big Boss was. Some had even succeeded, although none of them had survived long enough to pass their knowledge on to anybody. He was a ruthless dictator, feared and respected by most of the members and not quite popular with the rest, as his decisions were often arbitrary and unnecessarily cruel. By the way, he never justified his actions to the Organization. His intentions,plans and goals were veiled in mystery.

All of the attempts on his life (most of them initiated by new, inexperienced, ambitious members who dreamt of taking control of the Organization after his downfall) had failed miserably, and only strengthened the belief of his disciples in his sheer unlimited power. Before he left the Organization, he killed Gin, Vodka and even Vermouth, who, according to Kir's statement, had been his favourite for years.

That was all Shuichi Akai could collect about the person they called The Boss up to yesterday night, 8 pm.


	2. Umbrellas

**Disclaimer:**

Detective Conan belongs to Gosho Aoyama.

This fanfic belongs to me.

x.x.x.

_FS_

x.x.x

**One Weak Spot**

_(dedicated to SN1987A)_

x.

_...a short story about the Boss and his beloved Sherry... written with tongue in cheek as usual..._

**2. Umbrellas**

It had just stopped raining when he left his hotel room to walk to James' apartment. Despite the sun, which was peeping through the dispersing clouds, the moist streets were still decorated with colourful umbrellas of different sizes. The sight of the umbrellas floating through the streets brought back memories; and Shuichi Akai smiled absently to himself, slightly amused by the gusts of cold wind which blew tiny white and pink petals from the swaying trees to his feet and the long locks of his bangs into his eyes.

Some umbrellas were coming towards him and, noticing that they were occupying the whole sidewalk, dispersed to let him pass. There were four of them: blue with dark stripes, yellow with red dots, red-white checkered, and pink without pattern. The people underneath the umbrellas were Heiji Hattori, Kazuha Toyama, Sonoko Suzuki and Ran Mori, he recalled after scanning them with one short glance. Jodie, who, by the way, had taken great pleasure in teaching English to high school students, had showed him their photos and told him a plenty of random stories about them.

Ran Mori, the girl who he had met for the first time in New York, turned her head to look inquiringly at him when he walked past her. For a while, he could feel her gaze in his back and hear their chattering about him. "What's up, Ran?" "Nothing, but he and I met each other in..." After a while, when their voices had died away, he turned and looked back at her. She was still standing there, holding her ridiculous pink umbrella, looking curiously after him. This time, it was not only her figure and her sad eyes, but also her pose and her long black hair which reminded him of another one, who had died long ago.

What a stupid woman she had been, he thought, and, with a small twinge of conscience, raised his hand to touch the woolly hat he was wearing, wondering if she had ever noticed that he preferred the woolly hat to the scarf which she had knitted for him.

He resumed his walking, trying to shake off the unpleasant memories by concentrating on random things, for example the few rain drops which the wind had blown into his face, or his bangs which were much too long and which he should cut before they became a liability. His jacket and his shoes were covered with petals, he observed. The clouds had disappeared. The light of the sun had suffused the world around him... However, the spell was broken. And when a gust of wind blew some petals into his face, it did not seem amusing to him anymore.

x.

The young girls behind the stands kept throwing curious glances at him and working out hypotheses about his identity and the reason he had come to the shrine when he did not show any interest in it at all. He was standing apart from the crowd, smoking one cigarette after another, and didn't seem to have anything else in mind except standing there, watching the petals dancing in the wind and smoking his cigarettes with the relaxed manner of a man who had all the time of the world. Some of them thought that he was waiting for somebody, although he did not glance at his watch and did not look about him as they would expect him to do. Some thought that he might be secretly in love with somebody and had come to the shrine to see her. But after a while they dismissed that theory, which was very improbable, as his indifferent gaze barely brushed against the girls behind the stands and the young women in the crowd, and did not linger with any of them longer than with the others.

The mysterious person who seemed so interesting to them was a young man between twenty-five and thirty, dark and tall, rather charismatic and good-looking at second glance. At first glance, however, most people would only describe him as a melancholy young man with a pair of cold green eyes which were too serious and old for his young face.

Of course it didn't occur to any of them that this silent young man might be one of the most dangerous criminals in the world.

The Boss lit another cigarette and smiled scornfully at the queue which had formed in front of the shrine to buy talismans and to pray for a long healthy life full of happiness and love. They were always just like that, he thought. Weak-minded and shallow, forever clinging to their rose-coloured spectacles and their useless little rituals and ceremonies. Those who were praying for everlasting peace were usually the same people who would kill for their (usually petty little) goals without batting an eyelid – provided they knew that they didn't have to fear any consequences. Experience had taught him that it usually didn't take much time and effort to turn the average human being into a professional killer. Deep in their hearts, most of them were cruel, covetous and envious; most of them didn't care for anything but their own little pleasures, their own petty little world. They would do anything for money, power or love – or whatever they mistook for love. What was the difference between them and the members of the Black Organization, anyway?

On the stairs, a young woman gave her little son – it must be her own son, judging from the similarity between their faces – a violent slap on the cheek because he had torn her talisman into pieces when she was not looking. Despite the tears which the slap had brought to the boy's eyes, the Boss could observe a hint of a smile forming at the corner of his impertinent mouth. A faint smile of victory, the Boss reflected, which would soon turn into a wide smirk when that little devil got older, and which would appear on his lips every time he killed his enemies.

The weakest kids often grew up to become the cruellest adults, The Boss thought, lit the last cigarette and threw the empty package into a small container before he descended the stairs and left the shrine. Most of the so-called "normal people", either deliberately or unconsciously, committed petty crimes every day to revenge themselves on Fate for the cruelties they had suffered when they were young. Regarding them in that way, it occurred to him once again that the only difference between them and the members of the Black Organization was that their feeble-mindedness, their cowardice and their "scruples" (which was just a pretty name for their fear of punishment) prevented them from committing the serious crimes. The world was full of those wretched people. And he shouldn't have any problems finding enough members for his new organization.

x.x.x.


End file.
